Soul Highway

We don't know him

Re'Sean never disappoints when asked to perform. This little earthling's energy is simply boundless, and then add to that an imagination that's out of this world. His dad will be issuing a separate disclaimer. Hehe!

Balancing act

For all the relentless women out there who carry the pains and weight of the world - on their heads. Your strength is beyond words.

Mending family ties

I think I am whole again.
I swallowed my pride and made the call.
Sometimes it’s just easier to let go.
To wipe out words that leave scars.
No apologies, no recriminations, no excuses.
An ugly chapter is simply deleted.
For the heart to start on a clean slate.

Thanks, mahal, for giving it to me like it is. No sugarcoating, you said. Then you slapped me with the word pride. Thanks for taming the lion, once again.

Love, barrio-style

I grew up in a rural community. I spent my pre-school years in a farm where, in the course of visiting my grandparents every now and then when I got older, I would accumulate some of my fondest memories. There was no electricity so our sole source of entertainment was a battery-operated phonograph. When I think of my late grandfather, I am reminded of those classical music-filled evenings when we, the apos (grandchildren), would gather in the living room and sit spellbound as our grandmother culls from memory stories from the last war.

My parents met at the same farm. I’m not sure if it was love at first sight, but apparently my father first saw my mother plowing the field and he was smitten. He was working at an electric plant not far from the farm and would purposely drop by my grandparents’ house in an attempt to talk to my mother. My father, a rebellious lad from the city, got his chance but conversations with my mother did not happen with idle hands – each time he visited, my grandparents laid out a basket of corn for him to decob. It was also unthinkable in those days to talk to your loved one without a parent sitting in between and listening in. When my father returned to the city, my mother followed him. They were promptly married. When both of them finally returned to my grandparents' farm, heads hung low and expecting the worst, they were married again.

My grandfather was the typical skirt-chaser. After countless affairs with women, and at least two children outside of marriage, it was grandmother who finally roped him in. In keeping with pre-marriage rituals in those days, he had to perform manual labor for his future bride’s family to prove his dedication and trustworthiness. Public display of affection was shunned and it was expected that the bride would offer herself only after the wedding. My grandparents, however, had conflicting versions of this part of the story. Simply put, my grandfather was not a very patient man.

The harana, the art of serenading a woman, used to be an integral part of courtship in the Philippines.

I have the most modern love story in our family. Lucky for the husband, he was spared from the servitude. But growing up in a small town, I experienced what, when I think of them now, were amusing, if not crude, expressions of affections. There was a deaf neighbor who seemed overly generous – he would bring freshly caught fish to the house almost everyday and then walk away. He was a good man, but I was too young to recognize those fishy – literally - overtures. Then there was a boy who handed me a soft drink crown cap at a store. On the inside he had scribbled “I love you” in sloppy handwriting and I ran home. My first kiss scared the crap out of me. I was in first grade. The suspect, a fair-skinned boy who was the grandson of a known photographer in town, chased me home with his bunch of little hooligan friends one rainy afternoon. When he caught up with me, he grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on one cheek. I ran home terrified and crying. I saw the same boy when I was in high school (he transferred to the city when we entered second grade) and embarrassed him to death when I jokingly reminded him how he “harassed” me when I was seven years old.

As I got older, though, I became smarter. I had polished my comebacks. Returning home from a semestral break in college, a cousin introduced a friend who was probably five years my junior that time. He wanted to play Mr. Smooth. I told him he still had to eat quite a few sacks of rice to catch up with me. To shake off his persistence, I offered I deal: if he could last through a bottle of Tanduay, we could talk. He passed out.

What the heck is wrong with us?

Every now and then we come across news stories that just make our blood boil. No wonder there are people out there who choose to block out news channels, either out of disdain for the media or indifference to the bad news that dominate the headlines. But every now then we are shocked to our senses by stories like this:

Woman: Blame devil for infant in microwave

GALVESTON, Texas (AP) - A woman blames the devil, and not her husband, for severely burning their infant daughter in a microwave, a Texas television station reported.

She is hoping to be reunited with her daughter, but Child Protective Services is working to have the parental rights severed.

Again, what is wrong with us? I started out in the media as a cub reporter who had to follow what newsrooms term as routine police stories, aka holdups, stabbing incidents, road mishaps. Even after all those years of being on the beat, it's hard to get desensitized by the brutality and absurdity of life. When I read the article on the "microwaved baby," I was enraged. Enraged because it reminded me of the time I saw a newborn stuffed in a gym bag conveniently left by the mother at a department store. We are so vicious when we cross the line that separates us from savage beasts.

Yes, they're fearless

Just swinging by to post pictures from last weekend. Our Tony Hawk-wannabe rode his skateboard for the first time last Saturday. It's amazing how kids learn things - especially those that involve the possibility of ending up with scraped knees and broken bones - so easily. We were there once, too, but as we got older we slowly lost our grip on that seeming invincibility. We grew up and recognized fear, and lost our balance and agility with age. This reminds me of my 10-year-old nephew, Kirshan, who saw the ocean as nothing but a giant swimming pool. The first time we went to the beach, he was like a crazed animal let loose. While his swimming skills at the time consisted of uncoordinated thrashing of arms and legs in the water, he believed he could swim. A number of times he sank like a rock and swallowed salt water in the process but, for the life of me, he seemed to think that what goes down can always come up.

And below is Kirshan, puckering up. I miss that little monkey.